Mercy (37 page)

For that matter, what had Cam sworn to his own?

He thought of Allie and visibly became smaller, his shoulders rounding and h is head ducking down with the weight of his im-petuousness. Then he remember ed that this had nothing to do with her. Falling for Mia had not been someth ing born out of spite for his wife, or out of dissatisfaction in his solid, stable marriage. It was a selfish act. And it was probably the only thing Ca m had done in his life strictly because he had wanted to. He had wanted to wear cutoff jeans and faded khaki T-shirts and to be a tra vel writer; instead he was a uniformed police chief. He had wanted to skim the surface of the world, touching down like a dragonfly where he chose to; instead he was bound and tied to Wheelock. He had wanted to become a facel ess individual in the crowds that thronged the Riviera and the running of t he bulls; instead he was the titular head of a clan and completely unmistak able to its members.

He had wanted Mia so strongly it shook the faith of his convictions; and i n a moment he could not have stopped even if he'd wanted to, he had grabbe d hold before the opportunity passed him by.

Ellen took a step closer. Cam was reminded of how, seconds before the stin g of her hand flashed across his bottom when he was a child, she had alway s seemed to grow in size. It had taken him years

Jodi Picoult

to figure out that this was simply a matter of perspective as he cowered bene ath her fury.

He forced himself to stand tall, towering over his mother. She looked up at him, and for a moment he didn't have the courage to meet her eye. However, when he finally glanced down, she was not glaring at him at all. Her eyes were soft and sloe, the color of the belly of the sea. / married her becaus e of her eyes, Ian MacDonald had liked to say. I fell the whole damn way in to them, and I couldn't find my way out.

"I don't understand you," she said quietly, and she walked out of the room, leaving between them the faint and glowing image of Cam's father, the memo ry of his parents kissing behind a half-closed pantry door, and the looming question of why something that felt so incredibly right could be undeniabl y wrong.

/n his left hand, Graham held the magazine article that had led him way the hell to Boston to visit Dr. Harrison Harding, psychiatrist. In his right han d was the report of the State psychologist's findings from his aborted inter view with Jamie: Air. MacDonald presented no clinical evidence during his ex amination to indicate any psychopathology. He does not exhibit signs of psyc hosis, neurosis, or aberrations in personality. His affect was appropriate a nd his answers were lucid and reasonable. From a legal aspect, it is clear t hat he knew the nature and quality of his acts.

Jamie was sitting next to Graham, his feet nervously tapping on the floor. He had agreed, out of desperation, to take a battery of tests: Rorschach, IQ, W

AIS, Graphic Projectives. But he spent the three-hour car ride telling Graham that since he wasn't crazy, a psychiatrist wasn't going to say that he was. It was his opinion that Dr. Harding would be no different than the asshole th e State had sent him to.

Graham had other ideas. "If Harding doesn't think you were disturbed enoug h to affect your judgment," he said, "we'll find someone else who does." But he didn't think he was going to have to look much farther than this fin ely fashioned, austere office. According to the Time article he clutched li ke a lifeline, Dr. Harrison Harding ardently supported euthanasia. Not that he'd acted on his impulses; he was just a sort of well-mannered, gray-temp led spokesman for assisted suicide. He had been interviewed in conjunction with a feature story on Kevorkian, some reporter's way of showing that more than one educated man of science believed in mercy killing. 261

Harding himself came to the outer office. "Mr. MacPhee," he said, extendi ng a hand. He raked Jamie with his gaze. "Mr. MacDonald." Graham turned to Jamie. "Stay here," he said, feeling like a mother. "I want to talk to him alone for a minute."

Jamie grunted, but he sat down and opened an Omni magazine. Graham follow ed the psychiatrist into his inner sanctum. Unlike the neat waiting room, this chamber was warm and full of sunlight. Bowls of Chex Mix sat on sma ll Formica cubes that served as coffee tables, refreshments for an upcomi ng session. Dr. Harding sat down on a plump couch and gestured to a match ing one across from him. "Quite a case you've got." Graham had spoken to him when he called to make the appointment, so they h ad hashed through all of the particulars. Now, briefly, he told Dr. Hardin g about Jamie's view of events leading up to Maggie's death, about his own impressions of Jamie. "Sometimes you look at him and you think, How the h ell could he do something like that? And sometimes you look at him and he just breaks your heart." Graham finished speaking, took a deep breath, and glanced at the psychiatrist, trying to read his face for a clue as to how his words had been received.

Psychiatrists must learn during med school not to give anything away. Hardi ng rested his head on his folded hands and nodded shortly. "You've entered an insanity plea," he said conversationally. "Why not euthanasia?" Graham didn't bat an eye. "Because America isn't ready for that yet, especi ally not in the Berkshires, where half our jury will be farmers with eighth

-grade educations and machine workers who think in terms of what circle get s welded to what square."

"Mr. MacPhee," the psychiatrist said, "what brings you to me?" Graham swallowed. "I need you to determine if Jamie knew the nature and the quality of the act he committed. Basically, if he understood the consequen ces of smothering his wife, if he knew it was wrong, that sort of thing."

"I don't know if I can fit my evaluation into your legal standards." Graham felt his face burning a dull red. He had no doubt that if he'd bree zed in here and said he was changing the plea, Harrison Harding would have done cartwheels to get his name connected with the case. "You thought I w as coming to ask you advice about a euthanasia defense." Jodi Picoult

The doctor nodded, then sighed. "Let me tell you about myself," he said. " My wife and three-year-old daughter were shot by a sniper who went berserk at a Kentucky Fried Chicken in Chicago. My daughter died immediately; my wife lasted on life support for over three years, fed through a nose tube and wearing a diaper, shrinking away until she was so unrecognizable I cou ld not be entirely sure she was the same person. Out of this came my need to be able to control death."

Graham sat forward, transfixed. "You didn't kill her."

"That doesn't mean I didn't want to. Or that I don't think other people should have that right."

Graham picked a Rice Chex out of the mix on the table and ran his finger ar ound its rough edges. "Then you should have quite a lot to discuss with Jam ie."

For a long moment, neither man said anything. Finally the psychiatrist stood up and walked to the window. "I can't promise you anything, and I can't mak e judgments without having seen Mr. Mac-Donald," he said. "On the other hand

, there are things you might consider. Impulsive behavior in Jamie's past, f or instance. Is he the kind of man who packs up a suitcase and flies standby to Fiji for the hell of it? Or would he buy his tickets six months in advan ce for the price break? And there's also the psychiatric concept of regressi on, which suggests that under a period of extreme pressure the mind would re vert to the state of a child."

Graham dug his notebook out of his jacket pocket and began to write down the se terms. "There's a theory that suggests Jamie's personality may have been so fragile he would mentally bind himself to someone else," Harding said. "I t's called a fusion fantasy. He was actually, in his mind, feeling the same pain that was affecting his wife. By killing her to end her suffering, he wa s ending his own suffering as well."

"That's probably right on the head," Graham said, "but I don't think it will ho ld up in court."

The doctor turned around, lost in thought. "In extreme cases, undue stress can lead to a psychotic episode. Think of the Vietnam vets who came back wi th PTSD--post-traumatic stress disorder. Some of them relive battles regula rly. There have been a few instances of murder, when afflicted patients kil led someone close by who, in their minds at the time, was VC." Graham's eyebrows raised. "Will you see Jamie?" 263

Harding nodded. "I assumed you'd brought him for more than company on a lo ng drive." He crossed to the door and opened it, gesturing to Jamie, who l eaped to his feet like a puppy too long confined. "Mr. MacDonald," Harding said, shaking his hand. "I've been following your case." Jamie glanced from Graham to Harding and back to Graham again. He sat dow n and belligerently crossed his arms over his chest. "I suppose you're go ing to want me to lie down and talk about my mother."

"No," Harding replied. He sat on the corner of his desk and reached for a sm all tape recorder, which he held out to Jamie for inspection. "You don't min d?" He pushed the record button, and let the dead air fill the room. Then he looked at Jamie. "I'm going to ask you some questions, yes," he said. "But first I'd like to tell you about my wife."

Cam was flipping through the past repair receipts of the Whee-lock police c ruisers when his mother walked into the station. He had not seen her since that unfortunate intrusion a week before, and he knew she had spoken to All ie since and had kept her silence. Allie had told him a few nights before t hat Ellen had called to say she wouldn't be able to make it to Christmas di nner; an old friend from a Vermont commune had invited her for a country ce lebration. "I can't say I'm not disappointed," Allie had said, "but how can we possibly compete with horse-drawn sleighs and a seance?" Ellen stood in the doorway of his office, carrying two festively wrapped gif ts. "Merry Christmas," she said, her mouth turned down at the corners.

"Merry Christmas," he murmured, keeping his eyes glued to his desk. He cle ared his throat and stood up, jamming his hands into his pockets. "I heard you're going away for Christmas."

She nodded. "To the Peace of Jl Living Community. A woman I met in a shiat su class a year ago set it up on her eighty-acre farm when her husband pas sed away." She dumped the gifts onto the desk unceremoniously. "I invited myself. I couldn't possibly look Allie in the eye," she said. "God only kn ows how you do it day after day."

Cam forced himself to look directly at her. "I'm going to tell her. I am. But I'm not giving Mia up, either."

"And has anyone told Mia how foolish it is to run away with a Jodi Picoult

man who's run away from somebody else?" She shook her head. "History rep eats."

Ellen straightened her spine and touched the two gifts sitting on Cam's desk.

"The skinny one is yours," she said. "I think you should open it while I'm h ere."

Cam slowly ripped the jolly green paper and the circus of ribbons that garn ished its top. Inside was a handmade broom with a woven thatch of straw on one end and a carved face at the top of its sassafras wood handle. "A broom

?" he said.

Ellen touched the leather thong that had been punched through its neck as a l oop. "You're supposed to give a broom to a new couple for luck," she said. "W

ell, that's fitting, because even if I wish it wasn't happening quite this wa y, I still want you to be happy, Cam." She pointed to the face, the tiny imag e of a wizened, grizzled old man. "That's a tree spirit. It guides your spiri tual cleansing."

She laid a hand on her son's arm. "If God had wanted us to act on instinct, we wouldn't have the power of reason." She drew him down and took him into an embrace, so that Cam could smell the familiar curl of peppermint drops and Fantastik and Chanel No. 5 that had laced through his childhood. He gav e in to the urge to sink against his mother. "Promise me," Ellen said, "tha t this time you'll think twice."

Mia opened the gift box to find a wool scarf bright with the Car-rymuir Ma cDonald tartan. "Thanks," she said, looping it around her wrist. She glanc ed at Allie and smiled, thinking, What is this supposed to mean? Does she know?

"I didn't get you anything," Mia said. "I'm sorry." Allie grinned. "I certainly wasn't expecting anything. If it makes you feel b etter, consider this a Christmas bonus for taking over while I was helping ou t with Jamie's defense. I would have had to close the shop, otherwise." Mia laughed nervously. It was the day after Christmas, a slow day they wou ld use to reorganize the stock and tidy up the shop, which had been strewn with velvet ribbon and overturned boxes of votives in the mad rush to do over sixty holiday arrangements.

She had not seen Cam on Christmas Day. Only briefly, on Christmas Eve, wh en he'd come to pick up Allie. They were supposed to be celebrating tonig ht. She did not know what excuse he was planning to use.

Allie began to move around the shop, picking up spools of French-svired ribbon and a few floating disks of Oasis that had managed t o get overlooked by a broom. She was wearing an obviously new Christmas ou tfit--pale pink pants and an oversized sweater in shades of gray and white and pink. Her hands kept coming up to her ears, fiddling with a pair of t winkling sapphires. She glanced up at Mia. "Aren't they beautiful?" she sa id, clearly not expecting an answer. "Cam got them for me."

"Very pretty." Mia tried to keep her voice steady. "What did you get him?"

"Oh, things." Allie reached for a broom and leaned her elbow on the handle.

"Some casual shirts, a portable CD player, a guitar." Mia glanced up. "A guitar? Does he play?"

Allie smiled. "Not yet. I got him lessons, too. I always wanted a guy who w ould sing love songs to me."

Mia walked to the low table that held the bonsai trees they had started tog ether several months before. She ran her fingers over the lines of the tree s, bending sideways and down in all sorts of carefully wired, unnatural pos itions. "You have to trim these buds," she told Allie absently. Then she wa lked to the cooler and took out her yogurt. She thought of herself in the s hower of Allies master bathroom, pressed against Cam and loudly laughing th rough rondos of "Row Row Row Your Boat." "I didn't know Cam could sing," sh e said.